


Somebody Left the Cake Out in the Rain

by Haloharry



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 2016, Bakery, Canon Compliant, Cupcakes, Fluff, M/M, One Shot, Reality, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, cupcake date, larry - Freeform, larry stylinson - Freeform, one direction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 13:35:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5745784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haloharry/pseuds/Haloharry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>January 10th, 2016: Louis is sad and tired from stunting, so Harry takes him to a bakery to cheer him up. Cue flirting, sarcastic comments, and fluff. Lots of fluff. </p><p>Canon-compliant, 2016 fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somebody Left the Cake Out in the Rain

**10/01/16 – London**

** Harry **

When Harry finally exits Waitrose, it’s with a furrowed brow, clinging on to two bags with one hand and tapping at his phone with the other. At this rate, he thinks, he’ll end up with frown lines by the time he’s twenty-five.

His mind is filled with the picture of Louis in bed, where he left him this morning – not that it’s a particularly unusual occurrence, but this time he’d left Louis sad, albeit muttering in his usual salty tone:

_“I’ve been away from you for ages, Haz, and I’m fucking sick of bearding with Danielle,”_

_“Not long ‘til we can be together, Lou. Like, properly, and that.”_

_“I just – I’m tired of getting my hopes up. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with Danielle. She’s a nice girl and all, but she’s just not… you.”_

Harry had tried so hard to make Louis smile, yet barely succeeded.

_“I guess, you clearly have a type, at least.”_

_“Yeah, brunettes. But I like mine different. Like, I dunno, maybe a bit… taller.”_

_“Good thing I like mine a bit shorter.”_

_“Oi!”_

Now Harry waits as the phone rings, praying it doesn’t go through to voicemail. After a tense period of time, he hears the familiar intonation of Louis’ tinny phone voice, sounding unusually flat.

“It’s Louis.”

“Yeah, I know. Wouldn’t’ve called this number, otherwise.”

“Harry!” His voice seems to brighten a little, but he sounds husky and tired, which puts Harry on edge. “When are you back?”

“In, like, half an hour. You better be dressed when I get home, ‘cos we’re going out.”

This sets off Louis’ grumbling, which, he’s not going to lie, is a bit of a turn-on (although practically everything is, with Louis. Thoughts for when he’s not in public, perhaps).

“Yeah, I’m just putting on a top,” says Louis, and Harry can make out some fairly frantic rustling in the background. “Hey, Harry!”

“What, Lou?”

“Have you ever thought about sleeves?”

“Frequently, Lou.”

“They’re just – they’re like – like trousers. But for your arms! How weird is that?” He bursts into crackly giggles, sounding so proud of the revelation, and Harry sighs. It’s like having a conversation with himself, and he knows that nobody but him can be _that_ weird without a narcotic stimulus.

“How much?”

The laughing subsides. “How much what?”

“How much weed, Louis. How much have you smoked?”

“Not so much that I can’t still spend the day out with you,” he states soberly, and Harry’s got to hand it to him for making a quick recovery, or at least sounding like he has.

“Fine. But make sure you’re dressed appropriately.”

Louis’ voice immediately returns to playful. “Does not wearing pants count as ‘appropriate’?”

“Uh… I dunno. Are you talking, like, British pants or American pants?”

The fucker has the nerve to laugh, full and hearty, but Harry can’t resent him for it because it’s the first time today that he’s done anything more than smile blandly.

“Tosser,” he mutters, grinning despite himself.

“Love you too, Haz.”

They hang up, Harry smiling fondly and shaking his head. As difficult as he is, Louis has a way of making him feel like he’s fifty miles above the earth – even when it’s just his voice on a mobile. He tucks the phone into his pocket and uses his free hand to rub his upper arm, where his ship tattoo lies hidden beneath layers of clothes. _Home, now._

 

* * *

 

 

Back at their house, Harry has just enough time to get the shopping on the counter before he feels the pressure of his 5ft 8” boyfriend against his back, arms snaking around his torso.

“I’m home,” Louis mumbles into his coat.

“Babe, you’ve been home this entire time.”

“Nuh-uh.” Louis shakes his head against the curve of Harry’s spine, making him smile affectionately and lean back into the touch. “Now I am, though.”

Harry turns around, not breaking the circle of Louis’ arms, and kisses his forehead. It’s unlike Louis to open up like this, and while Harry hates the necessity of drugs in enabling this show of emotion, he can’t deny that he appreciates a slight change from the norm.

“C’mon, let’s move,” he murmurs, although he can’t help but wrap his arms tightly around Louis as he says this, bringing about a slight contradiction to the statement. Louis buries his face into Harry’s shoulder and moans unintelligibly, settling into a comfortable position as Harry rests his head in Louis’ hair. “C’mon, it’ll be good for you to get out. I’ve planned the whole thing.”

His eyes are drawn to Louis’ shoulder, where the skin is obscured by thick blue fabric. He grins.

“We have to go out now, or you put that jacket on for nothing! And I know how much you hate wearing jackets.”

Harry thinks of how many times he’s opened the door to a jacket-less Louis, back home late from partying and shivering like mad. He would always repeat the same words:

_“Louis! I’m not sleeping with someone who’s got fucking pneumonia. Wear a jacket, dammit!”_

Back in the present, Louis pulls back a little and smirks. “Yeah, I do hate jackets,” he says, glancing down quickly at his crotch.

“Oh my _God_ ,” Harry groans, attempting to ignore his boyfriend’s one-track mind. He breaks free of the embrace and heads towards the door, tugging a reluctant Louis behind him. “Let’s just get out of here.”

 

* * *

 

** Louis **

Louis looks up at the shop in front of him, then back at Harry, a disdainful expression on his face. “A bakery? Really?” he all but sneers, but Harry’s eyes are still sparkling when they return his gaze, enamoured by the bright and cheery aura of the quirky yellow walls.

“ _Louis_ , it’s like sunshine! Like, actual sunshine!” He looks like a five-year-old on Christmas, and Louis has to resurrect every negative thought inside of him in order to maintain his condescending expression.

“Guess we kinda need a bit of sunshine with all the rain we’ve been havin’ lately,” mutters Louis, earning a beam from Harry. “What’s up with you and bakeries anyway? Thought you gave that up a while ago,” he teases, nudging Harry with his arm.

“Reminds me of the good ol’ days,” he replies, and _god_ Louis thinks he might actually be serious, with his nostalgic expression and wistful tone. He glances down at Louis blithely. “Apart from, you know, the massive gap in my life, of course.”

Louis scoffs, but butterflies erupt inside his stomach and it’s all he can do to hide the grin sneaking onto his face. The fact that Harry still makes him feel like this after five long years of living and working in close quarters is frankly embarrassing, but secretly Louis wouldn’t sacrifice it for the world. “D’you have a sixth sense for cupcakes, then? Is that why you keep dragging me to places like this at ridiculous hours in the morning?”

“Louis, it’s two pm. And, no. Not just cupcakes. S’all baked goods, actually.”

“You must be tryin’ to wean me off Greggs. Get me into those high class pastries, all vegan and shit.” This prompts an eye roll from Harry, inspiring Louis to continue on his tirade. “You know, the posh pastries, fit for only the refined palate of Harry _Edward_ Styles and Her Royal Highness Queen Elizabeth the se – “

His rant is stopped in its tracks, however, when Harry pulls him inside, and the smell of the bakery reaches his nose. It’s almost overwhelming; the scent of crispy pastries and soft buns embracing the warm air – a pleasant juxtaposition to the cold outside – in what he imagines to be the sensory embodiment of a heartfelt hug. He inhales deeply, feeling the heat of the shop and of the boy next to him, and can’t imagine a better place to be on a rushed Sunday afternoon at the beginning of January. Except, that is, being in bed with Harry. Nothing would ever beat that feeling.

He looks up at his boyfriend, whose sweet smile rivals even the éclairs on the stand next to him, and feels a wave of emotion hit him. He’s so damn lucky to have this: his job, his life, but most importantly, Harry. Part of him wants to pull his stupid face down and kiss it right now, in front of everyone, but he knows that the backlash from Modest! would be too severe to even consider the action. _Two more months_ , he chants internally. _Not long now_.

“Ok, so what’re we getting?”

“My treat,” says Harry, smiling indulgently. “Anything you want in this shop, it’s yours.”

 _Even you?_ Louis almost asks, but instead opts for “Yeah, well, it’s not exactly gonna put you out much, is it mate?”

Harry’s jaw tightens, although his eyes crinkle and he bites down on his lip as if he’s restraining a smile, and Louis wonders idly if it’s possible for someone to grit their teeth fondly. “That’s. Not the point.”

Louis grins at his boyfriend’s pained expression, reaching out to brush his hand over Harry’s in a gesture to show that yes, he does appreciate him, and Harry’s face immediately melts back into his natural lazy smile. “I know,” he murmurs, moving just a little bit closer to Harry, so their shoulders are touching. It’s about as much as they can do in a public shop, but it still feels wonderful.

That is, until Harry’s eyes are dragged to a place on the counter behind Louis’ head. “Ooh!” he squeals (like, actually squeals). “Gluten free Bakewell tarts!”

Louis’ head snaps over to him faster than Niall’s during the RBB interview. “Harry. Hazza. If you’re doing this for me, then please, for the love of god, do _not_ buy that fucking gluten free monstrosity.” Harry just looks confused, not quite understanding how much of an insult it is to baked goods that gluten free Bakewells even exist. Yeah, maybe it’s useful if you’re intolerant or something, but Harry’s just a hipster, which is a pathetic reason, in Louis’ opinion. “If you even touch one, I swear, you won’t get _this_ for a month.” He gestures to his crotch, voice low and as serious as it can be when he’s staring at the human equivalent of a Labrador puppy.

It works. Harry ducks his head, eyes moving from Louis’. “Actually, now that you mention it, that donut looks pretty, um, tasty…”

“Good lad,” Louis praises, and Harry glows at the tiny compliment. He’s so easily pleased. _In a lot of ways_ , thinks Louis.

They reach the front of the short queue in record time, after two teenagers make a collaborative decision to head to Pinkberry instead. “Frozen yoghurt? In January?” remarks Louis, baffled. “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” Harry replies serenely, earning him an elbow to the ribcage.

Louis’ surprised at the realisation that they haven’t been recognised yet, since they’re not exactly aiming for subtlety with Louis’ bright blue jacket, and Harry’s gold boots and trademark hair. Nevertheless, Louis touches the wood of the counter in a bid to keep it that way.

The smiling face of the cashier greets him when he looks up, and he fondly notes her bleached hair, which reminds him of Lottie, all grown up in LA.

“What can I get you?” Her gaze falls on Harry, and she smiles widely. “Hey, I like your coat!”

Louis sighs. _Here we go_.

“Thank you!” exclaims Harry, his eyes lighting up as the comment spurs him to predictably launch into a rant about the collection. Louis can’t help but be entranced as his pink, full mouth moves fluidly, enthusing about some random designer and using terms Louis didn’t even know _existed_. Eventually there’s a short pause in Harry’s speech, which he takes as his cue to interject.

“Sorry, can we order please?” He flashes a quick smile to the girl (who looks more amused than impatient), so as not to come across too rudely. Harry chuckles next to him, but thankfully doesn’t attempt to restart the conversation, and Louis surveys his options.

“Ah, it’s gonna be tough. There’s so many things I fancy…”

“What about a French Fancy?” Harry says in his slow, easy tone, sounding especially proud of himself for what Louis can only describe as one of the worst jokes he’s heard Harry make in the considerable time they’ve been together. He decides to bring him down a notch.

“No, no. I’ve already had a _French fancy_. In Paris – remember?” And maybe it’s the nature of the memory, or the fact that Louis’ bringing it up in public, but it’s enough to make Harry choke next to him, clearing his throat quickly in an attempt to mask it. Louis just beams at the cashier, who looks less cheery than before, clearly having heard more than she cared to know.

“Umm… Maybe you’d like the cupcakes?”

After Louis picks over 30 options from the counter, watching amusedly as Harry’s eyebrows rise further into his hairline with each successive pastry, they make it to the till. Harry slides his mastercard into the reader, making light conversation with the cashier, but Louis isn’t paying attention; instead staring longingly at the bread buns in the glass window of the shop. “Haz, can we get some of those buns as well?” he implores, in his best _what-Louis-wants-Louis-gets_ voice. He barely has time to register the mischievous grin growing on Harry’s face before he feels a hand ghosting across the swell of his arse.

“Don’t worry,” Harry drawls, achingly slowly, “we’ve got all the _buns_ we need at home.”

Louis inhales sharply, carefully noting the look of unfiltered contempt on the cashier’s face before he turns to regard his idiot of a boyfriend. The bastard is wearing a shit-eating grin (and God knows Louis would know what that looks like), obviously thinking he’s been _so_ subtle. “Funny,” Louis mutters darkly, almost at the point of apologising verbally to the cashier for how much of a pain they’ve been.

Harry notices the silence, smile waning a little. “I, uh… I used to be a baker,” he stutters, attempting a recovery. _Jesus Christ_ , thinks Louis, feeling like Jiminy Cricket having to supervise fucking Dumbo beside him, as he turns to speak to the poor girl behind the counter. He’s stopped, however, by the familiar wide-eyed look that’s leaking into her features; she’s beginning to recognise them, and Louis knows they have to leave before she matches their features to the glossy promotional posters from every store that’s selling their album.

Luckily Harry seems to be on the same page, grabbing the boxes while Louis takes the bags and leading Louis out of the shop by his elbow, only pausing to shout a quick “Thank you! Have a nice day!” behind him. They turn the corner, swaying wildly with laughter and trying to fight the urge to pull each other into a kiss, and Louis can’t remember a time he’s felt this good and this _free_. Harry makes him free, he realises, with a jolt. This relationship - _their_ relationship – is full of painful moments like this, where they’re so close, yet so distanced; unable to touch, or look too long, or flirt too obviously, or kiss on the streets (which is becoming increasingly harder to resist as Harry bites his bottom lip and stares down at Louis earnestly, refusing to break eye contact). As much as this relationship makes both of their lives indescribably more difficult, Louis wouldn’t give it up for the world, knowing it’s the best thing he has. And standing here, on a London pavement, looking up into the face of someone he loves more than he could ever put into lyrics, he gets the sense that Harry feels the same, too.

 

* * *

 

** Harry **

The journey home had been mostly uneventful, only bumping into a couple of fans along the way. They’d even managed to talk their way out of it, playing it off by persuading them not to tweet until they were gone, in order to avoid a frenzy. The glare he’d received from Louis when he offered a fan one of their cupcakes in lieu of a picture had made him simultaneously terrified and turned on, but luckily they’d managed to make it home without further incidence.

Honestly, Harry thinks, it was just nice to walk together, enjoying the wintry weather and the dreary London crowds; isolated from the “January blues” atmosphere in their own little bubble. It’s been so long since they’ve hung out like this in public, feeding off each other’s company in the rare days off they have. Thinking about it more deeply, it’s probably Harry’s fault that they don’t do this more often – being unable to restrain his advances in front of other people makes closeting far more difficult, especially since there’s nothing Harry would want more than to take Louis’ hand in Leicester Square, or kiss him on the tube, just to make sure that everyone can see how happy and _in love_ they are.

Walking around London had been like a dream, and Harry desperately wants to cling on to that, rather than face Louis’ impending flight to Atlanta to stunt with Danielle. In fact, Harry wants to erase the entirety of 2015 for Louis – he’d seen the worst of their PR campaign after Zayn left, having to deal with the loss of his best friend while acting father to a baby that wasn’t even his _and_ being seen with Danielle, both casually and on a skiing vacation, when all he wanted was to be with Harry and his family. Harry and Louis had barely looked at each other on camera all year, both of them having perfected their tiny little methods of avoiding eye contact – so much that their hug on stage in Sheffield had felt almost revolutionary when it happened, which Harry realises is kind of screwed up for people in a five-year long relationship.

 _God_ , he’s looking forward to the break.

But it’s why he rushed around their living room like a madman when Louis went to pack his things; stoking the fire, grabbing the fur blankets (the ones Louis never wanted to buy, claiming they were “too sappy”, but Harry thinks he secretly loves) from the cupboard under the stairs and opening an expensive bottle of wine to accompany their bakery purchases. He turned on the TV above the fireplace and switched it to _Friends_ , knowing how it makes Louis laugh in such a light-hearted, unreserved way, with his head thrown back and his shoulders shaking.

And it’s why he’s now sitting on the rug in front of the fire with his legs wrapped around Louis’ waist tightly in an effort to erase all space between them (easily achieved, considering Harry’s limbs are double the length of Louis’). They’re facing each other, both swaddled in the fur blankets, revelling in the time spent together and forgetting, for a second, that the outside world even exists at all. Louis’ still shuddering with laughter as Harry wipes the remnants of brownie from his cheek – letting Louis feed him was a bad idea in the first place, but he hadn’t been able to refuse the hopeful smile on his face, and to be honest, he’s not sure he regrets it.

“Ok, ok, next one,” says Louis, recovering enough to form sentences.

“Not if you’re gonna squish it on my face again,” Harry grumbles, eyeing the selection of iced cupcakes and donuts which could be potentially very messy to handle.

“It’s your fault, you moved! Now close your eyes,” Louis orders, voice turning strict. _Oh, he’s being authoritative now,_ Harry thinks, considering making a fuss just to rile Louis up. He ends up complying without difficulty, though, wanting to see what Louis does next. “Open your mouth,” he says, and Harry can hear him forcing laughter down as he pops his lips open. “Wider,” insists Louis, and Harry _knows_ he’s holding the large, oblong chocolate éclair in his hands, because Louis has the mind of a fucking twelve-year-old. But it’s too late to back out now, so he sits still as Louis undoubtedly plans something nefarious.

He feels the gap between their torsos shrink as Louis leans closer, and his body tingles with anticipation. The air moves in front of his open mouth as Louis holds the éclair, or whatever pastry it is, closer to Harry, and he struggles not to grin at how stupid this whole thing is. It feels so good, though; the closeness of Louis, the trust he’s placing in him. It feels – “ _Argh_!” he yelps, as something creamy hits the back of his throat and he chokes helplessly. Louis immediately breaks down into laughter at his expense (nothing new there), as he attempts to swallow the éclair cream without spluttering everywhere.

“C’mon love, you’ve swallowed more than that without choking,” Louis quips, and Harry uses the hand that’s not covering his mouth to hit Louis as hard as he can on the arm. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” giggles Louis, trying to protect his arm as laughter shakes his body, “honestly, me hand just slipped! I didn’t think it would squirt that far when I squeezed it!” Harry switches methods, using both hands to tickle Louis mercilessly, until they’re interrupted by the laughter track coming from the television.

Harry turns to Louis, who’s leaning back warily, fearing another tickling attack. “You’re _my_ lobster, Lou,” he says as seriously as he can whilst mimicking Ross’ fuzzy Hollywood accent. Louis pushes at his chest, which Harry would’ve taken as insulting if he hadn’t been wrestling a massive grin from his face.

“Oh, come off it,” he mumbles, emotionally constipated as always.

“You’re, like, an emotional… spork,” Harry tells him, laughing at his scrunched-up face. Louis leans forward in retaliation, smearing éclair on his nose and causing Harry to pull away, which ends up with him toppling onto the floor and taking Louis with him. They’re both giggling uncontrollably now, Harry feeling like a child on a sugar rush with Louis’ full weight resting against his chest as his sides begin to ache with each spasm. They’re not even drunk, and Louis came down from his high ages ago, but they can’t seem to stop _laughing_ , and with every gasp they breathe in a bit more of each other. Louis buries his head in the crook of Harry’s neck, one arm trapped between them and the other tangling itself in Harry’s curls. Harry moves his own hand so it’s gripping Louis’ waist, so he can feel every movement, every shudder. Despite this, it takes him a while to realise that movement of Louis’ mouth against his neck isn’t just kissing.

“What was that, babe?”

“You’re my lobster too.”

Everything slows down in Harry’s mind, for a second, like the calm before a storm, as he focuses on Louis and moves closer so that there’s nothing else; just his hair against his cheek and his body under his fingertips, and his scent when he inhales. Until they don’t feel like separate people anymore. That’s when it erupts inside him – a cacophony of every cheesy lyric or poem that he’s ever read or written, complete with the missing trumpets from _Olivia_ , building up to a peak. It hurts in his head, his stomach and every surface of his skin that’s touching Louis: the feeling of loving and being loved by someone, in every moment of your life.

 

* * *

 

** Harry **

“You got everything?” Harry asks, voice as bright as he can manage. Louis sighs in response.

“Yeah, love. Just one thing – can I take the guitar?”

“ _Our_ guitar?” Harry loves that word – ‘our’. It links him to Louis, always, despite how many miles there are between them. He smiles, properly now. “Course, babe.”

“It just feels like a piece of, I dunno, home, I guess. Summat familiar when I’m not with you,” Louis babbles, trying to justify, as usual, something that really doesn’t need justifying to Harry. He reaches out and pulls Louis in, part of him considering physically tying them together like this so that he won’t be forced to leave. Circling his arms around Louis, he leans forward and presses their foreheads together, as if their minds could somehow interlink so they’d never truly be apart. Except then Louis would see how much Harry really loved him; the massive, chaotic, churning tidal wave that eclipses all of his waking thoughts when he’s near Louis. Or far from him. Just, all the time, really.

“Lou?” The word murmurs across Louis’ face, then dissolves, as if it was never really there to begin with.

“Mmm?”

“I don’t mind you taking the guitar. Just… write about me, yeah?” Harry says quietly, almost embarrassed, and Louis presses their lips together once before pulling back and smiling, somehow seeming assured and content even though Harry feels like the sky is about to fall down.

“Haz, everything I write is about you,” he says, easily, eyes a vivid blue in the hallway light, maintaining the casual demeanour of someone who didn’t just turn a grown man’s legs to jelly with a handful of heartfelt words. It’s so, so romantic, and Harry wants to absorb it all and just let the moment settle… but he has an itch.

“Um… except for the stuff about Zayn,” he teases, provoking a groan from Louis. “Oh, and the ones for the fans, and the stuff you wrote with Liam –“

“Jesus, Harry, I was aiming for romantic? You’re bursting the bubble, mate,” Louis retorts, prodding his giggling boyfriend in the ribcage.

“Nothing will ever burst our bubble, Lou.” There’s a padded silence after that statement, as both of them let the nuances of it settle into their thoughts and calm their doubts, before Louis breaks the peace.

“Oh, so now _you’re_ allowed to make romantic statements and get away with it, but _I_ have to deal with your abuse – fucking double standards, this is, I’m outta here – “ Louis makes as if he’s going to pull away, but Harry reels him back in so they slam together and hug comfortably, just swaying slightly with the leftover momentum. They tilt their heads towards each other, smiling too much to properly kiss, but somehow making up for it with passion and vigour (and Louis’ hands running up underneath Harry’s shirt).

They steal a few more kisses before the car arrives, when Louis buries his head in Harry’s shoulder and nuzzles into the material of his shirt. “M’don’t wanna go,” he says, warming Harry’s skin with the words. “Can I stay here?”

And _oh_ , he sounds so vulnerable and Harry thinks his heart might cave in right here, in the hallway. “No, love,” he says sadly, and feels Louis slump against him with a sigh. He pauses to fondly stroke his hedgehog-hair, sticking out in every direction, and presses a kiss to it. “I could come with you in the car, though.” It’s a risky option; Harry’s not sure management would be on board with the plan, given that they’re already going to be ‘sorting out’ the consequences of their previous public outing (although as to what needs ‘sorting out’ apart from corporate homophobia and a blatant disregard for human autonomy is anyone’s guess).

“What if we’re seen?” murmurs Louis, having always been cautious on Harry’s behalf ever since the ‘410 women’ incident of 2012 – a punishment for their refusal to stop “acting so gay”. And then there had been Taylor, a consequence of album promotion combined with Harry being unable to stop staring at Louis during interviews and on stage, where Harry would sing love ballads to him, or they would flirt openly, or just share secret little glances and dirty hand gestures. The fallout of that had been catastrophic for Harry’s image – at least, from his own perspective and for the people who knew him well – with Harry being written off as some sort of playboy who couldn’t keep it in his pants around women; a portrait of lust and greed and everything that’s wrong with their PR team.

Really, Harry’s seen it all. He feels used, worn out, and he really, _really_ wants to drive his boyfriend to the airport. “Fuck management,” he states, voice low and casual. “They only have two months left to torture us anyway.”

And that’s how Louis and Harry end up curled in the back seat of the car with the driver’s partition up and every word exchanged being whispered hastily against each other’s ears. They strain against their seatbelts (insisted upon by Harry) in order to achieve the level of closeness they crave, tangling their bodies until it’s impossible to gauge which limb belongs to who. Harry feels powerful like this, messing up Louis’ hair with his fingers and biting his bottom lip when they kiss. “Haz, you know I’ll look properly fucked by the time we get to the airport,” mumbles Louis, as Harry balls the front of his shirt up in his fist and tugs him even closer.

“That’s the intention,” he says, pressing his mouth against Louis’ for the thousandth time. He feels a rumble of laughter beneath his hands and his lips, coupled with an “OK, then.”

It’s overwhelming, being with Louis like this, with such a short span of time to indulge in each other. They giggle together, reminiscing about far-off memories and inside jokes that will keep them going through the weeks they’re apart; the tiny moments that no one else knows, or could ever know, that make their relationship so much more special. When so much of his life is in the spotlight, it feels so precious to relive the privacy of his love for Louis. So they trace it back, mapping the relationship as it grew from its X factor days through every concert, every success – and similarly every breakdown, every disappointment. They place their hands on each other’s tattoos and talk about the meaning of each one; about how Louis’ compass will always, always point to Harry, and Harry’s heart will always, always belong to Louis. They press the half-hearts, tattooed faintly on each of their chests, together, and Harry wonders how it came to be that two imperfect halves could make such a perfect whole, even as they’re separated. And yeah, it really is moments like these which give him the strength to continue.

This is why people write songs about love, Harry thinks waywardly, as they near Heathrow. This intensity that’s almost too much to bear, but so addictive it’s impossible to quit. It’s why he always finds lyrics in his head when he looks at Louis, no matter what the context is, or where they are, or how far apart they’re standing. And as much as Modest! and Simon Cowell might try to pull them from each other and force distance between them, Harry knows that the more difficult it is, the sweeter moments like these become, and the further they fall in love with each other.

**Author's Note:**

> Check out our blogs:  
> hairflipsandharry.tumblr.com  
> riseandshineharry.tumblr.com
> 
> Title from Mac Arthur Park by Donna Summers (inspired by RBB - thank you overlords)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as we loved writing it :)  
> Feel free to comment!


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